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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26686270">Fueled by Blood</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haospart/pseuds/Haospart'>Haospart</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Reaver's Blood (Rett Hawke) [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blood, Blood and Injury, Injury, M/M, Reaver Hawke, Warrior Hawke (Dragon Age), a character analysis of my main Hawke and his terrifying battle stuff, reavers are terrifying</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 03:48:12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>345</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26686270</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haospart/pseuds/Haospart</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A bit character analysis of my warrior Hawke, and his very <i>concerning</i> way of fighting.  It'd be blood magic, if only he were a mage.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Anders/Male Hawke, implied Anders/Male Hawke</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Reaver's Blood (Rett Hawke) [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1941925</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Fueled by Blood</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>He's a Reaver, and that leads to some... disturbing things that I can't imagine are particularly pleasant for any of the companions <strike>like the Devour skill, that shit's fucked up but SO COOL</strike>.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It was a terrible thing to watch him fight.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hawke, that is.  Each fight was a race against a running clock that started the moment Hawke's first wounds appeared.  It seemed, lately, that most of those first wounds were self-inflicted, a slice across his palm or a clean, shallow drag across his upper arm with the edge of his axe.  A sacrifice made in blood to fuel him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Because Hawke was sweet.  He was sweet, and helpful, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>kind</span>
  </em>
  <span>.  But he was also a Reaver.  He took blood and pain and used it to fight better.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hawke doing especially well on the battlefield-  well it wasn't a good sign.  It meant he was close to dropping.  It meant he was inches away from being struck down.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As a healer, it was disturbing to watch.  Most people faltered, the closer to death they became.  But not Hawke.  He </span>
  <em>
    <span>thrived</span>
  </em>
  <span> when he was at his closest to death.  His mind sharpened and his swings with the enormous, heavy axe became quicker and more precise.  He swung harder and tore through people like it was nothing, with blood that probably wasn't his own dripping down his chin and out of his mouth.  He was never more effective than when caught in a bear trap or outnumbered and cornered.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He bit, and tore, and ripped, and shredded through opponents, standing confidently until they were all dead.  Then he sank to his knees, exhausted and bleeding, and waited for help to find him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He'd fight with enemy weapons still lodged in him.  Arrows were nothing but a nuisance and a kindling for the fire he stoked in himself for battle.  There was one time he'd ripped through a Tal Vashoth raider with a spear lodged just above his hip.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<span>He was constantly hurt, constantly bleeding, constantly </span>
  <em>
    <span>racing</span>
  </em>
  <span> against a clock that could only be slowed in the heat of battle, but never halted.  It only stopped when the battle ended, when he breathed out and then calmed down, sunk to the ground, and waited for Anders to come find him.</span>
</p>
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